~ Special Delivery ~

by

Linda Wallace

One

With one final, lung-wrenching heave, April Thompkins powered her battered, fixed-gear Cannondale over the crest of what had to be the steepest street in Seattle. The bitter taste of extreme exertion flooded her mouth. She was more than ready for the rush down the other side.

But she didn’t get a chance to coast. The black van she had noticed pacing her in the left lane for the last block or so suddenly swerved in front of her bike. A burly arm shot out of the passenger window and clutched at her as the van zoomed down the street. Thick fingers bounced off her shoulder bag and skimmed her arm. The van cut her off and forced her directly into the path of a Metro bus just as it pulled away from the curb.

April gasped and lunged down hard on the pedals, her handlebar missing the bus by mere fractions of an inch as she whipped in front of the startled, gray-haired bus driver.

Spurts of adrenaline pumped through her body as she raced down the hill, leaving the bus and van behind in a splatter of mud thrown from her back wheel. In the tiny side-view mirror fixed to her helmet, she saw both bus and van drivers lift their arms at the same moment to shake their fists at her in perfect synchronization.

April sucked in a great gulp of air and let out a hoot of laughter. As though she were the one at fault. Few drivers ever extended any of the normal rules-of-the-road courtesies to bicycle messengers anyway, but what kind of sick mind would think it was funny to grab her? Was he trying to steal her shoulder bag or what?

She rotated her shoulders quickly to release tension. She didn’t have time to speculate about weirdoes. She had work to do.

April ripped open her Velcro arm pouch to glance at the slip of paper with the address of her current delivery scribbled on it. It had to be on this block. Dashing away the rain that dripped from her helmet, she scanned the street numbers.

There. The tall, dark-blue building that loomed just ahead.

April hopped her bike up over the curb, unclipped her Shimano shoes from the pedals while she was still moving, leaped off the leather seat and dropped the Cannondale where she stopped. Triumphantly, she raised her arms high above her head and did a victory dance right there on the sidewalk, ignoring the covert stares of the few pedestrians braving the foul weather. Inches from instant death, and she had made it--still gloriously alive!

A brief frown flitted across April’s face as the adrenaline dissipated and her thoughts returned to business. There was no nearby place to lock her bike and no time to search out a safe spot. She was going for a personal best. This was her forty-seventh delivery today. It was getting late in the afternoon, but she still had time to beat her all-time record of forty-nine.

Fifty deliveries! Her eyes lit up as she thought about the possibility. That would be the perfect cap to the day. She would be in the same league as the courier stars at XPress Messenger Systems.

And she could use the extra commissions. April stared down ruefully at her shredded kneepads. That last spill she had taken when she had unexpectedly met a motorcycle at the end of an ally had really done a number on them. She badly needed a new pair.

Resolutely, April snatched up her bike. She’d take it in with her. If she could just sneak past the security guard, she would be in and out of the building in a matter of minutes and on her way to delivery number forty-eight.

The door to the building opened automatically in front of her. Great! she thought. She didn’t have to wrestle with the door while holding on to her bike. More good luck--there were two security guards, but they were engrossed in answering the questions of a flock of Japanese businessmen clutching electronic foreign language translators. The guards were turned away from her just enough so she could whip past them through the lobby and on to a long bank of elevators.

April sprinted toward an elevator door that was closing, karate-chopped it open, shoved her bike inside and leaped in after it. Fortunately, there was only one other occupant--a tall, lean, dark-haired man who started back as she burst into the elevator. He might report her to security, but she would be out of the building before they could do anything about it.

"Hi," April greeted him cheerfully, hoping to win him over with a little charm.

Of course, he didn’t respond in kind. "Bicycles aren’t allowed in the building," he said in a reproving tone.

He had a take-charge air about him, as though he expected people to pay attention when he cited rules and regs. It was a beautiful, rich, deep voice, really, one that would sound right at home narrating a PBS television special on the endangered species of the Amazon.

She grimaced. Too bad he was using it more like a reprimanding parent.

"I thought my bike might enjoy a little elevator ride," she responded flippantly and turned her back on him, determined to ignore him for the remainder of what she fervently hoped would be a very short ascent.

As she whirled away from him, she heard the long waterproof tube of blueprints that poked out of her shoulder bag soundly whack him across the face.

She looked over her shoulder to assess the damage. "Oh, rats! Oh, really, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you."

Mortified, April spun around toward the man to try to make amends, her jacket casting off a shower of water in the process. His once perfectly groomed hair was now all mussed. Charmingly boyish-looking dark locks spilled down across his forehead. His cheek was branded with a long, dull-red streak and beaded with rain droplets.

"Are you all right?" she inquired anxiously.

He didn’t answer. Amazingly, though, he didn’t look angry. In fact, he was actually grinning at her. True, it was a very condescending sort of grin, but all things considered, his face could have expressed a whole gamut of emotions that would have been a lot worse.

"Let me help," April said, as she whipped a cowboy-style bandanna out of her fanny pack. She stood on tiptoe to dry his face, but the man took one look at the red bandanna and her gauntlet glove with the fingers ripped out and shot out his arm in an instantaneous block worthy of a Sonics basketball champ. He gripped her arm tightly, holding her away from him, as she stared into his amused-looking dark eyes.

They remained frozen in that tableau for what seemed an eternity. All was silent except for the ping of the elevator counting the floors. His hand felt very large and alarmingly strong, and she could feel its heat even through the sleeve of her Gore-Tex jacket. April’s heart skipped a couple of beats before she was able to step back.

"I think you’ve helped me more than enough for one day, thank you," he said as he ran both hands through his hair to smooth it back.

"Well, I really am sorry," April repeated lamely before she turned away. "I didn’t mean to."

She could feel his eyes inspect her as she watched the floor indicators on the elevator panel light up as they ascended. She was acutely aware of the tire tracks and the little puddles of mud and water accumulating on the parquet floor as the elevator leisurely rose.

She hadn’t failed to notice his impeccably tailored and pressed navy suit and pristine white shirt. On her own clothes she knew mud thrown from her back tire splattered her from her calves to her neck.

Oh, to hell with it. April squared her shoulders and stood as tall as her four feet, eleven and three quarter inches allowed. She didn’t give two hoots if he didn’t like the way she looked. A stuffy, buttoned-down kind of guy like he was probably never did anything more exciting than call his stockbroker. He’d never know the thrill of trusting his life to his own strength and wits to punch through a wall of blaring traffic and come out on the other side a winner.

Still, she’d be happy to be out of the building in a few more minutes. Something strange and disturbing had happened when he’d grabbed her arm. It was a confusing feeling she didn’t understand or trust, and she was glad she wouldn’t ever have to see him again.